


So, That's How it Starts

by por_queeee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Dream Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex Magic, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Succubi & Incubi, eventual porn with plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an encounter with an incubus inadvertently reveals Dean's feelings for Cas, Dean makes the decision to just ignore the whole thing and avoid the angel for awhile.  But when a cut-and-dry case in Ohio turns into a little more than the brothers bargained for, Dean might have to consider praying for the angel after all- and confronting whatever it is that's growing between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If Dean has one more dream about Cas, he’s going to gas up the impala, crank some music, and drive straight East until he sinks into the Atlantic ocean and fucking _dies._

Because seriously, talk about distracting.

The aftermath of the incubus incident itself had been bad enough. Having his angel ( _the_ angel, Dean reminds himself, not _his_ angel,) walk in on him about to lock lips with a decidedly Cas-shaped incubus had been . . . Well, possibly the most awkward moment of Dean’s life.

Sure, Cas had smote the son-of-a-bitch before Dean had gotten full on whammied by its weird sex magic, and _that_ was certainly a good thing, but having your friend find out he was your “one true desire” via the shape a fucking incubus chose when seducing you was . . .

Well, it was definitely not what Dean had planned for his Friday night.

And that moment after, when Dean stood there just staring at Cas, mouth hanging open dumbly and palms turned limply upward in some kind of “sorry I almost fucked your doppelganger” apology, had seemed to stretch into forever. Cas had just stared back, dagger still dripping blood, head tilted in obvious confusion, lips pursed in the clear beginnings of a question Dean really did not have the energy or will to answer.

So, Dean had handled the situation the only way he knew how; by laughing awkwardly, slapping Cas on the shoulder with a choked “thanks buddy,” and doing his best to figure a way _out of there._

Ignoring his problems was always a good choice.

For his part, Cas had initially seemed too confused to say anything, just nodding stiffly and not questioning the way Dean immediately reassured him that he could leave now that the situation had been handled. Which was frankly a pretty crappy way of thanking the guy for saving his ass yet again, but it was so honestly a conversation Dean did not need to have with fake-Cas’s blood splattered across his chest.

It seemed for a moment like Cas would put up an objection to the dismissal, eyes beginning to narrow in questioning suspicion, but then his head had tilted and his eyes had shifted to the side in that way Dean knew meant there was an important broadcast on angel radio. So instead he had dropped a gravelly “We will discuss this later” and disappeared.

Dean’s pretty sure that had been more of a relief than even the being saved part, and he hadn’t wished to look a gift horse in the mouth. Much better to repress the emotions (and sheer arousal) he had felt when what he had thought was Cas had been pressing him up against a wall and basically feeling him up. Easy enough, right?

What he hadn’t counted on were the dreams.

 

Sam isn’t sure what’s going on, but Dean has been a mess all week.

Well, maybe not a _mess_ , because that implies it would be noticeable to someone else and let’s face it, Dean is pretty damn good at functioning under pressure both internal and external. But still, to Sam it’s all perfectly obvious underneath the usual false bravado; something’s happened. It’s evident in the way Dean soldiered through the last hunt without making a single joke, not even at Sam’s expense. Currently it’s evident in the way Dean’s fingers grip the Impala’s wheel just a little too tightly for no apparent reason, knuckles standing out white and teeth clenched, jaw twitching slightly.

Sam clears his throat, glancing sideways at his brother, who reaches over to turn up the AC/DC until it’s blaring from the speakers. 

All right then, obviously not the time to talk about the death grip Dean is exerting on the steering wheel. Sam turns instead to watch the scenery fly by outside the window, lightly hilled Ohio countryside spreading warm and golden with the dying corn stalks of the summer.

There’s finally a beleaguered sigh from the left, and Bon Scott’s angry voice fades to nothing as Dean flicks the cassette volume all the way to the left. Sam straightens out hesitantly, looking towards his brother in anticipation.

“Alright,” Dean says, sparing Sam a glance. “We’re getting’ close to Fairview now, so what’s the gameplan? What do we think’s ganking these poor bastards?”

Sam rolls his eyes. Of course that’s what Dean wanted to talk about. Had he really expected his notoriously stubborn brother to poor out his feelings so easily? Still, he reaches down to grab his notes on the case, Dean glancing at him expectantly all the while.

“Okay” he begins with a sigh, eyes searching the map and bullet points of information for a place to start. He’d tried to go over all of this with Dean _before_ setting out on the drive from Pennsylvania, but Dean had waved his hand dismissively with a grunt of “a case is a case” and proceeded to go out on another alcohol binge. Sam knew his brother was basically a high-functioning alcoholic, but seriously, there was something wrong when Dean wasn’t trying to bring girls back from the bars he visited. When he _turned down_ a few offers of no-strings-attached sex, for gods sake, which Sam wouldn’t even believe if he hadn’t personally witnessed it. What’s more, Dean’s been insisting on separate rooms ever since last weekend when Sam had left him alone so that he could help out a few friends of Bobby’s. And if Dean wasn’t doing that specifically for sex, then why?

“Ah,” Sam starts, finally deciphering his own fevered _it’s-four-in-the-morning-and-for-some-reason-I’m-researching-still_ scrawl. “Right. So. Basic spate of disappearances, no discernable pattern in victims; two middle-aged men, a teenage girl, and a little kid. All of them disappeared over about a two month span.”

“Okay” Dean nods, and at least he’s stopped trying to strangle his steering wheel, apparently distracted enough from whatever it is that he so obviously needs distracting from. “But what exactly makes you think these killing are related?

“ _Disappearances_ ,” Sam corrects, shuffling the papers in his hands. “And I think they’re related because each disappearance is separated by almost exactly two weeks, like clockwork. I knew which cases were connected because when each of the four people I mentioned went missing, so did literally everything they owned, short of their friggin’ house. One of the guy’s dogs even went missing along with him.”

Dean considers this quietly, expression indicating he’s not exactly impressed by what Sam’s dug up. “Still sounds like the work of some psycho to me. Maybe some guy who has a weird OCD need to get rid of everything his victim owned.”

Sam smiles triumphantly, pulling a piece of paper from his stack and holding it up until Dean glances from it, doing a double-take and squint before returning his eyes to the road out of necessity.

“So, what, a porcupine quill?”

Sam lowers the photo, brushing his hair back from his face. “Not a porcupine quill; a quill with traces of venom. Venom that couldn’t be identified, but which would put someone in one hell of a temporary coma. And it was found outside vic number two’s back porch the morning after his disappearance, with traces of his blood on the tip, like it stuck him and he pulled it out.”

“Alright” Dean concedes, grabbing the list of victims from Sam’s lap and skimming it as he drives. “I guess it’s worth a visit.” Sam would comment on all of the one-handed steering and lack of attention being paid to the road, but he has no desire to die just because Dean’s in a weirdly pouty mood, so he keeps his mouth shut.

When Dean forgets to turn the radio on, Sam knows that whatever has been making him act this way is serious.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys find out what they're dealing with, but Dean's still struggling with some problems of his own. And how the hell are you supposed to kill a manticore, anyways?

“A manticore,” Dean deadpans, staring at his brother as best he can in the dark. “Are you shitting me?

“Well, it fits the victim pattern.” Sam says with a shrug, sliding into the impala’s passenger seat and pulling the door closed after him. Dean mirrors his movements on the driver’s side, making as if to insert the key in the ignition but instead pausing and dropping his hand in a put-upon manner. They’re both in their fed suits, and the day of questioning the victims’ neighbors and family has proven pretty damn fruitless, this manticore theory coming from Bobby rather than any leads of their own. Whereas Dean would normally be happy just to have something to go on, he’s currently feeling a little pissed off and useless.

“Why in the hell would a manticore even be in the states?” Dean asks, giving Sam a hard look before finally starting his baby up, just letting her idle. The headlights cut through the cool autumn night like knives, giving the small rural driveway they’re parked in a yellow tint and highlighting the ridges of the cheap plastic jack-o-lanterns that vic number three’s family probably thought of as cute rather than, y’know, tacky. September’s barely over and these people are already readying up for Halloween.

“Not sure,” Sam sighs, looking pretty obviously wiped. “Haven’t even been seen in their home country of Iran since it went by the name of Persia. Not a ton of lore out there, so Bobby’s digging for ways to locate it and, more importantly, kill it.”

Dean grunts. That’s always how it goes, isn’t it? They get some weird monster that hasn’t been seen in decades to centuries, meaning less reliable lore, meaning a pain in Dean’s ass. God he missed the simple shit. Routine exorcism here, a vamp there, _simple._ “Alright, do we know _anything_ about the bastards?”

“Well, the most obvious is the thing about devouring their victims whole and leaving no possessions behind . . . Although to be honest, until now I always thought that meant no possessions on the victim’s _body_ were left, not that the things would sneak into a guy’s house and eat his friggin’ _lamp_.” Dean snorts. Weird-ass monsters.

“Then there’s the poison barbs” he continues, “like the one from the crime scene. Capable of paralyzing or killing. There’s some other stuff, but I’m not sure how much is true . . . I mean, this case is pretty much the only reason we know those other parts are legit. Supposedly they have three rows of teeth, the body of a lion, and the head of a man. Some stories say wings, others horns and a dragon’s tail, or a lion tail. Either way the tail is supposed to be the barbed part, whatever uh… Species it actually is.”

Dean groans, dropping his head back to thump against the headrest dejectedly. “Three rows of teeth? Frickin’ _really_?”

Sam nods. “Yep. Like a shark. Razor sharp, too.”

“Well, isn’t that just peachy” Dean mutters, straightening back up and shooting a glance at Sam. “So. That means these disappearances are definitely killings, huh? No way they’re up to something else and the people they took are just waiting for some good ol’ Winchester heroics?” His voice falters despite himself. No matter how he tries to play it off, he can’t help thinking of the parents of the little boy, how heartbroken and yet hopeful they’d seemed while clutching a picture of a blond kid no older than six. Kids. Why couldn’t these freaks ever leave the kids out of it?

Sam looks at him sadly, obviously reading his expression like a book, eyebrows curved in that sympathy that makes Dean’s chest clench defensively whenever it’s directed his way. “Sorry man, I don’t think so. Nothing’s impossible, but . . . It’s not exactly a manticore’s MO to do anything other than grab a snack.”

Dean nods stiffly. “Well then. Let’s get this fucker before it gets anyone else.”

When Sam claps him on the shoulder in reassurance, he almost wants to shrug it off, but he restrains himself. No use taking it out on Sammy. “We could call Cas y’know,” Sam offers hesitantly. “I know we shouldn’t abuse the whole angel thing, but he’s been around for basically ever and even if he can’t tell us where this thing is I’m sure he knows something useful.”

Dean practically bristles at the suggestion, jaw clenching. No way does he want to see Cas right now. He does his best to loosen up and seem natural when he finally manages to flash a smile at Sam. “Naw, Sammy. You know he’s busy with that . . .” and here he waves his hand vaguely “angel stuff. Bobby’ll pull through for us just fine, like he always has.”

Sam frowns hesitantly, and Dean knows what he’s thinking. Since when does Dean pass up a chance to see Cas, barring an argument of some kind? But he has zero interest in explaining how Cas is now aware of his homoerotic urges towards him, so, yeah, Sam can wonder what’s wrong all he wants.

“Now then!” Dean exclaims, cutting Sam off before he can voice the question inevitably forming on his lips. He moves his hand to the stick shift, shooting Sam a none too convincing grin. “How ‘bout some pie before we turn in for the night?”

\------------------------------------------------------------

Dean wakes up around three in the morning, drenched in sweat and achingly hard, images of Cas fucking _riding_ him still pulsing dully in his head. Every pore of his skin is on fire, his mind a swampy haze, and frankly he feels a bit like he’s going to vomit from the sheer _pressure_ itching under his skin.

Yeah, _this_ would be why he’s been insisting on the separate rooms.

It’s not like he’s never had a sex dream when sleeping in the same room as Sammy; hell, he’s sure Sam’s had his own share. But they weren’t typically so . . . _Affecting_ , and they sure as hell didn’t happen every single time Dean closed his eyes for some sleep.

They also never left him waking up with a half scream still dying on his lips. The dreams of hell did, sure, but that was a different kind of scream entirely, and Sam gracefully ignored those at this point unless Dean offered to talk about it (which he never did.)

Dean rolls over with a frustrated groan, burying the side of his face in the pillow and trying to ignore the taste of sweat souring on his tongue as he slides his hand down his boxers.

He squeezes his eyes shut and strokes himself almost grudgingly, breath still shallow and shaky from the dream. He’s discovered over the past few nights that just giving in and jerking off is basically the only way to get back to sleep after these things. And thinking of the dream- of Cas- while doing so is the only way to gain release. Dean knows better than to think this is because of his feelings for the angel. Feelings or no, he’s had no trouble masturbating to visions of busty Asian beauties before this.

No. The nightly dreams and their unbelievable _realness_ (Dean swears that sometimes when he wakes he can feel the lingering pressure of a hand or tongue), the horrible fevered feelings that linger in their wake until he comes, the inability to suppress it with a cold shower or to think of anything but Cas when relieving himself the good ol’ fashioned way . . . Well, they all scream spell, curse, mojo, _something_ not natural.

Dean bites back a curse as he quickens his pace, sweat-slick palm not feeling like nearly enough after the intensity of the dream. He thinks of Cas, not just the pliable naked Cas of his dreams, but the just plain weird Cas of reality as well. The way he stares at Dean, not even realizing how close to eyefucking it is, the trim line of his body when Dean has managed to get him to lose the overcoat, the unreal fucking blue of his eyes that crackles with a hint of just how human he’s not.

Dean comes with a muffled half-sob and a flash of white-hot pleasure when he remembers the way Cas had once looked at the handprint he’d left, Dean just having stepped out of the bathroom after a shower, only a towel around his hips. _God_ he’d almost looked possessive in that moment, proud, like he approved of the mark, and Dean shudders as the aftershocks of his orgasm leave his body, his fever leaving with them. He swallows, willing his breath to steady as he licks at his salty dry lips, preparing to get up and clean the mess he’s made of himself.

So, yeah, definitely a spell. Seeing as how the incubus is dead and never sealed the deal with him in the first place, he has no idea how this is possible. But if he ever expects to look Cas in the eye again (which will be hard enough considering what Cas saw,) or go back to the much more practical sleeping arrangements of a shared room, he needs to fix this. The question is, how? Frankly, this is _not_ something he wants to even think about requesting Sam or Bobby’s help on. Or, god forbid, Cas’s.

For the time being it looks like he’ll just have to suck it up- at least until this case is over.


	3. Chapter 3

As it turns out, Bobby is pretty useless re:manticore info. None of the hunters he’s contacted have had a damn thing to say, and apparently even the dusty old tomes he keeps have proven fruitless. Well, other than a few excerpts from some Greek guy- Pliny the Elder Sam had called him- that weren’t even telling them anything they didn’t already know.

Which brings them to where they are now; combing through every bit of surrounding wilderness for some hope of a clue. There’s nothing in the lore about being able to transform into any human shape, so looking for a remote place a freakish monster could hide out unperturbed seemed like their best bet. According to the established feeding cycle- and Dean cringes at the “feeding” part, remembering the picture of the innocent little boy who this thing snacked on- another victim is going to be taken any day now. So they have no choice but to go into this blind.

Dean kicks at a tree branch testily, eyes trained on the small cavern entrance his moose of a little brother has ducked into. He’s really not happy to be left alone with his thoughts, so when Sammy’s shaggy head reappears he represses a sigh of relief.

“Anything?” He asks, already knowing the answer because this is day three of plan “there is no plan” and they don’t even know what the hell they’re looking for.

Sam shakes his head, readjusting the leather pack on his back. Seeing as how they don’t know how to _kill_ this thing, or even if they can (which is a none too comforting thought,) they’re carrying a little bit of everything. Shotguns, knives, extra bullets of the silver variety, holy water, iron, they have it all. Everything they could carry while maintaining a comfortable level of mobility.

Dean grunts, jerking his head and hoisting his own bag back to his shoulder. “Alright, let’s check out the west end of the woods next.” Sam’s long legs help him catch up quickly, and they’re trudging in silence for a few minutes before Sam’s cell goes off. Dean snickers because he set the ringer to Celine Dion last night at the diner while Sam was in the restroom, something Sam had apparently not yet discovered judging by the scowl he shoots Dean as he slows to a halt and answers.

“Bobby? Yeah. No, we’re still poking around those woods on the south side of town. Why?” Dean does not like the way Sam’s expression slips from one of patient listening to grim acceptance. “Alright. We’ll be there. Thanks Bobby.”

Sam hangs up and stares at his phone a moment before slipping it back into his pocket, eyes raising to meet Dean’s. “That was Bobby.” He says quietly, and Dean’s jaw sets, hands tightening into fists subconsciously as he waits for whatever shitty news they’ve gotten now.

“Yeah, I gathered that much. What’d he say?”

“Someone else was taken last night. Looks like-“

“-Yeah.” Dean cuts him off. “Another victim. This time on _our_ watch.” Dean turns to start the trek back to the impala before Sam can respond. They’ll need to repeat the usual process, interview the vic’s loved ones, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to lose any time.

He shoots a quick mental prayer to Cas as Sam jogs to catch up. He’s not letting anymore people die just because Cas found out about his little _crush_ , or because he’s having. . . Well, weirdly graphic magic-induced sex dreams.

When Cas hasn’t poofed up next to them by the time they make it back to the car, Dean isn’t sure if he’s pissed, worried, or shamefully relieved.

They throw their Fed suits on and drive to the address that Bobby gave to Sam, and by the time they arrive Dean’s tried calling Cas at least three times on his cell to no avail, and Sam apparently knows better than to do anything but toss him those sad worried puppy glances periodically. When they pull up to the curb Dean is very surprised to find a couple of police cruisers in the drive, along with what appears to be some guys from the coroner’s office taking an empty body bag in the front door. This isn’t what the house of a missing person looks like. This is a crime scene.

They share a glance before getting out of the car, slamming the doors and heading for the nearest policeman. The guy doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything other than glaring suspiciously in their direction.

“Howdy” Dean says with a grin, flashing his fake badge in perfect synchronicity with Sam. “Agents Smith and Wesson. Can you tell us what happened here?”

The cop seems to loosen up a bit at the sight of the badges, but not by much, and as hard boiled as he’s so obviously trying to look Dean finds it gratifying the guy doesn’t even hesitate at the obnoxiously fake names. “Yeah, homicide.” He answers, eyes flicking between them. “I wasn’t told to expect any Federal Agents.”

Dean’s still wearing his patented douchebag smirk as he takes off his shades, sliding them smoothly into his pocket. “Well, we weren’t exactly expecting a murder today, officer, were you? Hence why we didn’t call ahead.” He finishes with a quick flash of his teeth, and Sam steps up.

“You mean disappearance, don’t you? Like the other recent cases? That’s what my partner and I are in town for.”

“No,” the man responds, hooking his thumbs in his belt and trying to straighten up self consciously. He’s a good foot and a half shorter than Sammy, and Dean can tell he feels intimidated. “This one’s definitely a homicide. Got a body and everything. Well, uh . . . Part of one.”  
Dean and Sam share a glance. Bobby wouldn’t have called if this wasn’t relevant somehow, but a body being found was definitely one hell of a break in the pattern.

“Right. Well, we’ll just have a look-see if you don’t mind.” He brushes past the officer, who looks for a moment like he’ll stop him but instead stammers a muffled assent as Sammy follows.

It’s pretty obvious from the blood bath in the living room that this is where the crime happened, and the coroner’s office guys brush past carrying a filled body bag that looks disturbingly light. That explains the “what’s left of it” comment.

A plainclothes detective sees them enter and strides over. Dean answers the question forming on his lips with another flash of his badge, and Sammy heads over to question what appears to be the widow, who is being comforted by a policeman in the kitchen.

A few short sentences later- including a few words about the detective’s lack of competence, and his obstruction of a federal investigation- and they have the room to themselves for a few minutes. Sammy strolls back over as the widow leaves, ushered out by the sympathetic policeman, the seething detective on their heels.

The room is a wash of blood, the metallic stench of it heavy in the air. There’s a concentrated puddle in the center of the carpet, making it pretty obvious where the body was laying, but bloody handprints and smears on various other surfaces show one hell of a struggle. There’s also a weird looking shattered wooden chair, splintered like it was smashed over something. One of its legs lays near where the body was taken from, snapped in half with the sharp end coated thickly in what looks like blood but is as black as obsidian. Dean frowns.

“Widow was out of town last night for a conference. Came back this morning to . . . Well, to this.”

Dean nods, walking around to get a better feel for the scene. “So, thoughts?”  
Sam clears his throat, pointing to the smashed chair. “Well, looks to me like this Tim Peller guy got the drop on his attacker this time, smashed the chair on it. Thing knocks him down, he stabs it with that chair leg, thing takes him out. The end.”

“Yeah, judging by that black goo blood, I’m guessing you’re right” Dean responds, wrinkling his nose in disgust as his eyes follow a trail of it across the floor. “This is definitely the work of a beastie, but how do we know it’s _our_ beastie?”

Sam nods at something on the floor, and Dean turns his attention to it. “That’s how we know.” Dean walks over, careful to step over the splotches of blood in his path, and leans over to squint at the dark shape.

It’s another damn quill, just like the one from the second crime scene, this time sans blood. “Fair enough” he grunts, straightening back up.

“My question is, why leave the mess? Why not finish its meal like usual?”

“Well, judging by all this very not-human blood, my guess is the guy didn’t just piss it off when he shanked it- he hurt it _bad_ Sammy. If you’re dying, are you gonna stick around to finish your burger, or are you going to crawl back to somewhere you feel safe?”

Sam makes a face at the comparison. “Dude, don’t compare the vic to a cheeseburger.” 

Dean shrugs and grins. “Fine then, a salad. I know you go in for that healthy crap.”

Sam groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, tasteless jokes aside“ -and Dean has to bite his tongue here to keep from pointing out that as a salad eater, _Sam_ is the one without taste- “I think we just found the probably-manticore’s weakness.”

Dean glances at the blood-spattered pieces of chair before snorting sarcastically. “What, furniture? Should we hit Ikea on our way out?”

Another put-upon sigh from Sam. “No, Dean, not _furniture_. That chair was made from centuries old Grecian driftwood. The guy’s wife- er, widow- told me they bought it on their honeymoon. Considering Greece is one of the places Manticores supposedly used to prowl, it seems significant.”

Dean tips his head. “Well, that’s some deus ex machina right there. Thank you Tim Peller, you gorgeous sonuva bitch. Go ahead and grab a few of those splinters. Cops aren’t gonna notice and I somehow doubt that ‘ancient Grecian driftwood’ will turn up many results on ebay.” 

Sam nods and bends down, grabbing a few long thin chunks and shoving them in his pocket just as the detective comes back in, looking between the two of them suspiciously. “Are you two just about done? We’d like to start bagging and tagging the evidence.”

They both nod and smile politely. “We sure are. Thanks for the cooperation detective; we’ll be in touch.” Dean says, brushing past him and out the door.

As they walk back down the sidewalk to the impala, Sam whistles. “You were right about that being one hell of a stroke of luck Dean. I was a little nervous, searching for the thing with no idea how to handle it.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out far enough to glance at the screen and see that Cas is calling. His jaw stiffens as he hits the ignore button, sliding it back into his pocket. “Yeah, lucky as hell.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manticores are a bitch to fight. Especially when there's more than one.

Finding the manticore had proven a whole hell of a lot easier once it was injured, and the luck of what happened isn’t lost on Dean. The fact that it hadn’t previously left any signs of its presence like foot prints (paw prints? Dean was pretty sure it’d have paws,) had suggested some kind of supernatural gift for stalking prey without leaving a trail. The thing’s blood, however, is apparently not subject to the weird power, because it’s only taken the first half of a day combing through the woods to stumble upon a trail of the black goo, leading them pretty much directly to the entrance of another underground cavern. The area, apparently, is lousy with them, which is _not_ something Dean would expect of a small town in Ohio. 

Either way they’re as prepared as they can be, still carrying packs filled to the brim with odds and ends of monster hunting, just in case what they’ve done with the splinters of chair doesn’t do the trick. Dean shoots Sam a look and rolls his shoulders in preparation. “Alright Sammy, ready to do this thing?”

Sam nods in response, raising the high-powered lantern he’s carrying in one hand in affirmation. It’s going to be _dark_ down there, and neither of them is exactly sure of what to expect. “Let’s do it.” Before Dean can emphasize that he should go first Sam is clambering into the decent sized hole; Dean grumbles under his breath and follows, and they creep as far as they can until the small amount of light from the entrance is no longer enough to cut the inky blackness before them. 

With a preparatory inhale of breath Sam flicks on the lantern, moving it slowly around to get a feel for their surroundings. Rocky cavern walls widen out on either side, and Dean realizes they’re essentially standing in a big-ass underground room. The lantern lights only around thirty feet around them, and still the walls extend beyond that. 

Somewhere ahead of them the light catches on two large shapes, and they advance cautiously towards them, hands hovering over their weapons. When he’s close enough to realize there’s _two_ of the things, not just one, and they’re both thankfully still asleep, he shoves a hand out to stop Sammy in his tracks. He motions silently, pointing between himself and the form on the right and then between Sammy and the form on the left. They’ll try and do this quickly, at the same time, and Sam nods and sets the lantern down carefully in anticipation.

After sharing a tight nod they begin to slowly edge closer, and the moment seems to stretch into eternity because the closer they get the more Dean can make out of the things and it’s _terrifying._

They’re _big_. Probably about the size of a regular lion, but that’s damn huge when the fuckers are actually in the same room as you. The tails curl around the sleeping forms, tips ending in a mess of barbs- the quill-like things that had been found at the crime scenes. Each time the beasts suck in a breath the bristle of points shivers, rattling lightly in a twisted parody of the sound Dean’s learned to identify as Cas’s wings.

Dean chances a careful glance at Sam once they’re about halfway there, seeing him pull out one of the make-shift stakes they’d created with the shards of chair from the Peller house. The stake is about a foot long for leverage, with the relevant chunk of Grecian drift wood sharpened to a fine point and grafted on at the end. Dean swallows and mirrors the movement, every small rustle of their clothing and scuff of their shoes pounding like thunder through his blood and _thank fucking Christ_ the lantern hadn’t woken the things up, because it was certainly bright enough to illuminate the grotesquerie of their bodies.

The worst part, Dean thinks as they draw up next to the sides of the slumbering manticores and halt, is the _head_. The lore had said they had human-like features, but this- well, this is just a larger than normal human head stuck onto a lion’s body, only something about it is very very off. Something a little too perfectly symmetrical about the features, too manufactured, like a deliberate imitation of humanity meant to deceive and mimic without quite succeeding. The lines of the mouth are definitely wrong, extending far past where the lips end until the head almost looks halved. _The legends say they can swallow their prey whole_ he remembers Sammy saying, and something in the back of his mind thinks of what Cas would do if he just disappeared completely like that. Stuck in the belly of the proverbial beast.

He suppresses a shudder and hefts his stake back in preparation for the kill, fingers clenching tightly as he adjusts his hold, angling the point so that when he strikes it’ll slide between the thing’s ribs. Sammy is doing the same thing by the other one, watching Dean in the flickering light for a signal, and suddenly Dean realizes something; neither of these manticores looks injured. There’s no sign of that black blood, no visible wounds or even scars. Just as he tilts his head in confusion there’s a bellowing roar from somewhere to the right, trumpet-like and pounding through the caverns like the hooves of stampeding cattle.

_That_ , he realizes with dull certainty as his heart tries its damnedest to leap out of his chest, _that_ was the wounded manticore they’d been tracking.

As the two between them stir, vaguely human but too-big eyes blinking open into awareness and tails flicking like the twitch of a muscle upon first waking, Dean cries out. “Sammy! _Now_!”

Sam looks like a deer in headlights but immediately does what Dean says, and they both plunge their stakes into the sides of the manticores in tandem, crunch of ribs and shrill shriek-roars of pain splitting Dean’s eardrums just as the third manticore is on him. It knocks him off his feet with one deft sweep of its massive paw, and he hits the cavern wall so hard that the sting of its enormous claws rending his flesh barely registers.

_”Dean”_ Sam yells, and the two that they stabbed are struggling to rise and failing, bellowing that horrible trumpet whine as black bubbles from their sides in a flood, slicking the ground their paws scrabble desperately to find purchase on.

The third manticore is advancing on Dean slowly, and as he pushes himself to his hands and knees with a wince he can see that it’s very much still hurt, the other half of the chair leg it was stabbed with still jutting from above its shoulder-blade. It’s moving jerkily, the light from the lantern playing off of the patches of dried blood that matt its reddish fur.

Dean pulls a pistol from his hip and unloads a clip into the beast; just like he thought, the bullet holes fill in and heal almost immediately, confirming that those bits of chair attached to the stakes and still wedged into its friends are the only way to kill it. In the corner of his eye he can see Sam trying desperately to pull a stake out of one of the others, which have thankfully ceased moving because _one_ pissed off manticore was enough to deal with. He seems to be failing though, and Dean has a sinking feeling of dread.

The jaws on the advancing manticore _unhinge_ , the human head splitting horrifically in half to reveal those three sets of teeth Sammy’d mentioned, gleaming and two inches long. The tail of poisoned barbs whips forward and Dean barely manages to dodge it, sucking in air as the claw marks in his side tear a bit with the effort of movement. His hand tries desperately to hold in his own blood as he staggers to his feet, trying to back away from the advancing nightmare. Sam must have managed to pry the stake out, because he’s dashing towards the beast with the weapon raised over his head.

Dean barely manages a screamed “no!” before Sam is knocked away like a ragdoll by the length of the manticore’s whip-like tail, but at the very least Dean is pretty sure none of the barbs pierced him. Now the beast’s attention is all on Sam though, its jaws snapping shut in anticipation as it limps towards where he seems to have been knocked out. Its expression hasn’t even changed, just a stiff approximation of humanity with its glassy eyes and frozen features still twisting a knife of horror through Dean’s body. His blood is gushing between his fingers as he lurches forwards, trying desperately to get it focused on him again. 

“Get away from my little brother, freakshow!” He growls and in his mind he’s begging Cas incoherently, so fucking desperate because his baby brother is unconscious and there’s not a damn thing he can do to stop them both from dying. _Please Cas please, need you, it’s gonna kill him, where are you where are you you stupid bastard I need you._

Desperation and terror and anger are pouring through every ounce of him and suddenly there’s a flash of light and Cas is just _there_ with one of the stakes somehow in his hand, plunging it so hard into the manticore’s chest that blood practically geysers forth from the wound. He braces a foot on the shrieking beast and pulls the weapon free, bringing it in one more fluid arc through the thing’s eye, and the manticore collapses with a heavy thud.

Dean bites back a sob of relief and stumbles to his knees. His blood is syrupy on his fingers as he glances at Sam who looks blessedly uneaten, forcing a cocky grin to his face as he looks back to Cas. “Took you long enough.”

Cas doesn’t look amused as he stoops to Sam, who gasps and sits up as the angel presses two fingers to his temple. “Yes,” he says as he rises and walks briskly to Dean, sinking next to him, look of annoyance shifting to one of worry when his eyes fall to Dean’s ravaged side. “You haven’t been answering my calls.” He finishes quietly, but Dean has no response that doesn’t end with ‘difficult to want to answer a call from a guy who just found out he’s my gay crush,’ so he doesn’t say anything at all.

He expects the same two-fingered bandaid that Sammy got, but instead finds Cas’s hand batting his own out of the way before gingerly cupping around his shredded side. He grunts in pain at the contact, but then there’s a surge of white-hot lightning as he feels himself basically weaving back together where Cas’s hand has tightened, and then there’s nothing at all but the sensation of a warm hand gripping him through the thin cotton of his shirt. The whole time Cas’s eyes are boring into his own, brow wrinkled in sympathy and something akin to protectiveness. 

Even after the “touched by an angel” bit of healing is finished he doesn’t move his hand, and Dean has to tear his gaze away and stand, pushing him off. Sam is watching silently, also standing now and looking slightly confused. He raises his eyebrows questioningly at Dean, who clears his throat in as manly a way as possible.

Cas’s hand retracts hesitantly, falling loosely to his side as he looks at the carnage around them. “Manticores. I haven’t seen one in centuries, and I find you killing three of them.”

“I guess we’re no friends to endangered species “Sam says, joining them. “Thanks for the save, man. Really.”

Cas opens his mouth to respond but Dean cuts him off with a loose clap to the shoulder, very much conscious of how awkward it feels to be in the same space as both his brother and the object of his wet dreams at the same time- save or no save. “Yeah, thanks. Uh. Sorry for not answering. I was. . . Busy” he says, smiling tightly and pointedly ignoring the look on Sammy’s face.

Cas nods stiffly, obviously studying Dean carefully. “As was I. Your prayer yesterday reached me in the middle of something. You didn’t seem to be in danger at the moment, or I would have come.”

“Nah, I understand. Angel business and all that.”

Sam narrows his eyes at the two of them. “Right” he says, dusting off his jeans. “Well, I’m getting out of this frickin’ cave.” He nudges the carcass of a manticore with the toe of his show. “Smells pretty damn awful down here.”

Dean makes as if to follow him, like he can just ignore the angel standing questioningly stiff behind him, but Sam whirls around and glares at him pointedly like he’s about to tell a disobedient dog to stay. “I’ll be waiting for you in the impala while you _talk to Cas_.” 

Sam turns and starts to stride away, and suddenly _poof_ , he’s not even there. Dean whips his head to glare at Cas, whose hand lowers from where it was clearly pointed at Sam. “What? I sent him to wait in the impala, as he said.”

“Right, well. Thanks for saving our hides and everything, but I think we’re done here. So, you know. Feel free to poof me into the drivers seat.”

“Dean. We have not had a chance to talk.” Cas says, stepping forward, invading the hell out of Dean’s personal space as per usual, only now the closeness has a whole new layer of weird to it that he would very much like to avoid. 

He steps back as subtly as he can. “There’s nothing to discuss, Cas.”

“Dean, I saw the form the incubus took.”

“All due respect for that show of badassery a few minutes ago, dude, but I’m covered in blood and not all of it’s mine. I just fought _manticores_ and I would very much appreciate a hot shower right now. This is… This is not the right time to talk about-“ he groans, rubbing his temples. “-about _that._ ”

Cas raises his arms in exasperation advancing so close that their noses nearly brush. “Then when, Dean? When is the right time? I’ve waited for you to contact me- I have been paitent-“

“Never, alright?” Dean yells, shoving Cas back, and it isn’t lost on him that Cas basically just _allowed_ himself to be pushed. Still he sets his jaw, quickly looking away from the hurt expression on the other man’s face. “ _Never_ is the right time.”

Cas looks shocked, as shocked as his limited range of expressions lets him look, but slowly and with obvious effort he smooths it back into placidity. His voice, however, still has an edge of anger as he speaks. “Very well, Dean. Enjoy the walk back to the impala.”

Just like that, Dean’s alone. He tries to tell himself he’s thankful Cas let it go so easily, but really a part of him is disappointed. 

As he clambers out of the cavern’s entrance he’s cursing. Whether to himself or at himself, he can’t be certain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is finally forced to to face Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this final chapter took me so long to write! I've been very busy with life, and this chapter in particular gave me trouble because it's been so long since I've written a full sex scene.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left feedback and encouraged me to wrap this up.

Dean sits on the edge of his crappy motel bed, rubbing his face in frustration. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his skin is almost raw from the tenacity he had to scrub with just to get all of the damn black blood off. He realizes he’s being a spoiled brat, but he can’t help but think that Cas left it there as some kind of angelic middle finger. Seriously, how hard would it have been to zap it away, considering that knitting his side back together had apparently taken no effort?

Admittedly that had seemed to take… _Something_ out of Cas. Dean knows it hadn’t actually been a drain on the angel’s powers, but he can still feel the radiating warmth of that hand gripping his ribs much tighter than necessary, could see the _pain_ in the other man’s eyes. The remnants of anger there he had expected, but not… Something like fear. Because that made no sense, not when Cas had the power to lace sinew and skin back together with ease. 

Dean groans and lets himself fall backwards onto the familiarly scratchy covers. Sleep in one cheap dive’s bed and you’ve slept in them all. He needs to stop analyzing. Cas has been developing more human emotions from hanging around them so much, that much he already knew, and emotions are irrational as hell. Cas is his friend, so the concern he had seemed to feel over Dean’s injury is normal. Even if said injury was caused by a mythological beast. Even if said friend has the ability to pretty much instantaneously fix the damage anyways. But yeah, otherwise, normal. 

He rolls over with a huff and drags himself to the top of the bed, pushing his face into the blessedly soft, if questionably scented, pillow. Tries not to think about Cas’s lingering hand, the pressure over skin that had still tingled from being made whole again. The way Cas’s eyes had bored into his own all the while, like they were trying to see something. See what? That Dean was still alive? That Dean was fixed?

He wonders what else Cas fixed. Is it possible that Cas’s mojo touch was all-encompassing, and that along with the physical wounds it fixed the, uh… Magical ones as well? God he hopes so. He’s too tired and sore from trudging through woods and being batted around like a cat toy to avoid sleep again tonight. Weird cursed sex dreams or not, he’s can feel his body settling and his thoughts fading.

Digging his toes pleasantly into the crisp sheets he turns, sighing quietly. If there’s one thing Dean Winchester is used to, it’s motel beds and unwanted dreams.

_The incubus lies dead at their feet, Dean’s mouth hanging open as the real Castiel looks slowly between him and the inexplicably Cas-shaped corpse in confusion. He can feel an apology, a thank-you, and a denial all catching in his throat at once, clawing to get out ,and he tries to ignore the sweat sliding down the small of his back and the stomach clenching shame and anxiety welling inside of him._

_So it’s the practiced fake smile he pulls out as he finally manages a tinny laugh and a nonchalant clap on Cas’s shoulder. “Thanks buddy,” he starts, sidling away from where he’s trapped between the other man, the dead doppelganger, and the wall. Once he’s over far enough he turns to walk towards the cellar’s door, to escape Cas and the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Without turning he clears his throat. “So, yeah, thanks for the save man, but I know you’ve been busy. I’m fine. Totally fine. You can, uh. You can flap off now.”_

_But instead of a response there are footsteps and he whirls, watches the dagger slip from Cas’s fingers with a clang as he steps closer and closer. His brow knits in confusion and then Cas has grabbed him, is shoving him back against the wall and pressing their lips together, hot and hard. And this time it’s the real Cas, it’s his Cas, and the angel has one hand up his shirt and a tongue down his throat and it’s so real this time and so so good that he pulls back and mumbles a question, a prayer. “Cas?”_

Dean jolts awake suddenly, gasping a breath as his eyes flash open. He turns his head back and forth in sluggish confusion, body tense and mind stumbling over itself trying to figure out where the hell he is, and it’s only when his gaze lights on the defaced bible and clearly outdated telephone on the night stand that he’s truly back in reality. Right. The motel. A world where prissy angels don’t suddenly jump his bones, and instead he’s tormented by incubus induced-sex dreams that are disturbingly real. He would call it his own personal hell if that phrase didn’t still hit a little too close to home.

He’s hot all over, like he’s going to burn through the sheets, and with a dejected groan he shoves his hand down to the painful hardness in his boxers. Starts stroking hurriedly, the sweat enough slickness at the moment, letting thoughts of Cas flood his mind because he knows that’s all that this stupid fucking spell will allow him if he wants to come. Like rubbing it in, that he can’t ever really have what he wants. What he’s ashamed to want.

But a solid ten minutes later, nothing’s changed. He feels no closer to release, and the pleasure of touch is rapidly dissipating, not-enough and distinctly _not_ pleasurable anymore. A few more half-hearted tugs and he stops, biting back a sob of frustration. This has got to be another part of the curse. The more he strokes, the worse the fever gets, the more dizzy and sick he feels. Not at all like the other times he’s had to do this. 

He tries to ignore it- flips over, tries to sleep instead, but just ends up practically rutting against the bed because the lack of pressure is even worse than whatever had been happening. He tries jerking off again, with the same results, even when he tries to soldier through the overload of sensation, but when it reaches something like pain he has to stop. 

“God damn it” he hisses into the pillow before turning back over, struggling against his swimming head to sit up and flick on the dim bedside lamp. Every piece of him is howling out, but he doesn’t know what for, and he just wants it to _stop._

He braces himself, pulls the sweat drenched sheet back over his lower half, tenting his legs to hide the erection and squeezing his eyes shut “Cas, can you hear me? Please. Please, I need help. I know you’re mad at me, but. I need you,” he croaks, feeling vaguely like he’s about to faint.

When he hears the tell-tale flutter his eyes shoot open. 

Castiel looks frustrated for about the space of a second, mouth already half-open like he’s about to voice his displeasure, but then his eyes widen as he takes in the sight of Dean who is clutching his pillow for dear life and trying not to topple over.

“Dean, what’s wrong?” He asks as he rushes to the bedside, reaching out to grasp Dean’s bare shoulder. 

Dean tries weakly to slap the hand away, wincing at the effort, but it’s too late. Castiel grabs his shoulder and he practically gasps at the feeling of relief that immediately starts to radiate from where their skin meets. He still doesn’t feel like himself but god that’s so much better.

“Dean, your temperature is abnormally high.” Castiel says, starting to pull his hand away. The return of the pain is almost immediate and Dean hisses, grabbing Cas’s hand and pulling it back to where it was. 

“Don’t let go,” he grunts, trying to ignore the throb between his legs. The feeling of arousal in his belly is definitely intensified when Cas is touching him, which frankly he’s not happy about, but at least it doesn’t feel like a knife gouging at every nerve-ending like it did a moment ago. The lesser of two evils.

Castiel seems too taken aback to speak for a moment, but his grip on Dean tightens reassuringly, and Dean bites back a moan. Cas narrows his eyes, as if in concentration, and then there’s a weird sensation stemming out from where his fingers rest, and he tilts his head as he surveys Dean’s sweat soaked face.

“There’s something— Some magic on you. I can’t tell what it is.”

He’s still holding Cas in place, and he struggles not to stroke the other man’s fingers. He manages to nod his head. “Yeah, I know. I didn’t want to tell you—“

“— The Incubus.” Cas interrupts, mouth a grim line. “You were so focused on avoiding me that you would put your life in danger rather than ask for help?”

“Yes.” Dean groans, head lolling back against the wall. At this point his fingers have started exploring Cas’s wrist, buzzing with energy. His other hand twists in the bed sheet, white-knuckled. He’s still so light headed, and now that the hurt is gone his head clouds with something else. The lust again, but ten-fold this time. “God, fix it. Please fix it Cas. I feel like I’m going insane.”

Castiel swallows. Another little human gesture Dean’s has noticed him picking up lately, and in his current state it sends another wave of arousal through him. Cas’s looking at Dean like he’s torn, broken. “I don’t know how.”

“What do you mean you don’t know how? This is just like my side, right? Just touch me and make with the heal-y,” he hisses, grip on Cas’s arm tightening. His hips twitch involuntarily when his lust addled mind stumbles over the thought of Cas touching him ‘in the afflicted area’ the way he had earlier.

Cas follows the slight movement with his eyes and Dean would swear that the tips of the angel’s ears are turning pink if it weren’t for the fact that he otherwise seems perfectly composed. “It’s not that simple, Dean. The cause isn’t as apparent. A curse, like any kind of magic, is woven to reality. It can take time to de-thread it.”

Dean cries out in frustration, hand stroking further up Cas’s arm, fingers pushing slightly under the sleeve. He can fight doing anything worse, but the urge to touch is too intense. “You brought me back to frickin’ life! Just zap me or something!”

“I can fix this Dean, but it will take time—“

“I don’t _have_ time! I’ve put up with this the past few weeks but this is _different._ ”

Castiel sits on the side of the bed and oh, that is so not a good idea. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on something other than how close Cas is now, on the hand that still grips his shoulder tighter than is strictly necessary. He’s never noticed before how nice Cas smells, like fresh-cut wood and shaving cream (which makes no sense considering the perpetual stubble.) “What is the exact nature of this curse, Dean?”

God Cas’s voice is so close, low and gravelly and sending a pulse straight where it shouldn’t. “It’s an incubus curse, Einstein. Figure it out” he grits. 

He feels the touch on his shoulder seem to falter, and then strengthen. Gripping him so tightly it almost hurts, but sends a shudder of want through him instead. “Dean, you have to tell me exactly what symptoms this curse has caused.” 

And oh how badly he would like to not answer that, but if he wants out of this situation at all he knows he has to. “It- right after you um. Killed the incubus.” thatlookedlikeyoubecauseImaybepossiblyfeelverygaythingsaboutyou. “I started having these dreams, and I would wake up like this. Not like _this,_ they’re doing- he’s got two hands twisting in Cas’s trench coat and his tongue down the angel’s throat.

With monumental effort he manages to push Cas away, still not taking his hands off of him for fear of what the curse will do. Even this amount of distance already has him wincing slightly, and Cas looks perplexed.

“Wait,” he gasps, suppressing a shudder at the immediate twinge of pain that grabs his body. His dick feels like it’s going to explode, and not in the good way. “Why’re you-“

“This is the quickest way to dissolve the curse.” Even though Cas’s voice comes out as monotone as ever, Dean is pleased to note the flush on his skin, the way his pupils are obviously dilated in lust. He winces at the amplified throb of arousal that knowledge sends through him. Everything feels too magnified, too pressing.

Dean balks. “What?”

“Based on the symptoms you described, the curse that was placed on you is an advanced form of incubus magic. The only ways of dissolving it are to be released by the incubus, or to sleep with the object of your affections. Otherwise your condition will continue to degrade over time.” As he finishes, Cas stares at Dean for a second as if making sure he was understood, then attempts to dive back in for a kiss. Dean barely manages to shove him away.

“Dude, I am not going to be a _pity fuck._ ”

Cas tilts his head. “Why would this be-“

“-Because you pretty much just said so! You said” Dean has to thunk his head on the wall just to clear the confusion spreading through him once more. “You’re just trying to break the curse. I never wanted it to happen this way. I don’t want you if it’s just from some sense of… Of obligation.” He finishes lamely.

A growl of frustration and then Cas is kissing him against, shoving him down into a laying position with super-human strength and climbing to straddle him. “This is not obligation, Dean.” He hisses against his lips, and Dean’s hips buck up at just the tone of his voice. “If you hadn’t been so stubbornly avoiding me these past weeks, you would have known.”

“What’re you trying to say?” He manages to respond with a strangled groan.  
“That I would want this regardless of the curse.”

The simple statement sends a jolt straight to Dean’s prick and he immediately buries his fingers in messy brown hair, pulling the other man back down into another kiss. Their tongues have entered the equation now and Dean kisses with all that he’s got, arms pulling the other body as tightly against his as he can, biting at Cas’s full bottom lip. Kissing Cas feels amazing, but when they’ve been doing it for several minutes he can feel the need expanding like his heart’s going to burst, and Cas doesn’t seem to know how to proceed other than shakily pressing the hardness in his pants against Dean’s stomach. He flips them over, surprised at how easy it is, and he flips the tie out of the way and begins unbuttoning Cas’s shirt.

“I can—“

“Don’t you dare poof your clothes away” he growls in response, kissing and licking his way down Cas’s neck as he pops out the last button. “Curse or no curse, I’m going to do this right.”

Several minutes later and he’s managed to divest Cas of all of his clothing, despite how inept Cas is at trying to help. It doesn’t seem like he’s really very practiced in undressing himself, so it takes a lot of prodding and nudging on Dean’s part to get him in positions that make the removal of the annoying amount of layers possible.

It’s worth it though, because when he’s finished he’s kneeling over a pale, flushed, very erect Cas and the image is so appealing he has to stop a moment to stare, even as he keeps one hand anchored on the other man’s lightly haired chest. Cas’s body is thin but undeniably masculine, cock around the same size as Deans, barely above average but straining. It’s not the first time he’s been with a man, not even the third, but it _is_ the first time he’s been with one who’s completely naked and he finds that he definitely likes it. His hand slides over Cas’s ribs to his hard but not especially muscled stomach, stopping short at the beginnings of his happy trail.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he whispers, quickly tugging off his own boxers before leaning back down to lock their lips again, stroking his hands over the newly exposed flesh. Cas tentatively starts to return the favor, hands smoothing down Dean’s chest and sides, circling back to pull insistently at his shoulders as Dean finally presses their hips together. He reaches between them to grasp both of their erections, biting at the stubble on Cas’s jaw as he gives a few thrusts. It doesn’t take long before Cas is arching up against him, panting raggedly in his ear. 

The sensation is unnaturally pointed in a way that tells him this is definitely along the line of what the curse wants from him, but it’s admittedly a little dry with only pre-cum to slick the way. Dean bites down on a curse when he realizes how far away the lube is. 

When he stops his movements Cas practically _whines,_ hips stuttering up again either subconsciously or in protest. Dean barely manages to crawl to the edge of the bed and grab the lube from his bag without fainting from a fresh wash of pain, so when he’s back to straddling Cas he gasps in a breath of relief. Raking his eyes over the undone angel he opens the bottle, squirting some into his hand and beginning to apply it to his cock.

“Is this the part where you penetrate me?” Cas asks, eyes following Dean who freezes at the statement.

“I, uh. Wasn’t planning on it.”

“I believe it will be most effective for the curse.”

Dean blinks. “Cas, I don’t want to hurt you. Not your first time doing this kind of thing.”

“You can’t hurt me.” Cas states matter of factly. Dean feels like an idiot, because of _course_ it’s a little presumptuous to assume his very mortal cock could somehow devastate a celestial being who has been kicking ass for centuries. Cas pulls him back down for a kiss, adding “And I’ve wanted this for too long.”

Dean has to squeeze his eyes shut. “How long?”

“From the moment I saw your soul.”

For some reason this sends a pulse straight to his dick, and Dean is immediately back to kissing and licking over Cas’s chest, fumbling to squirt more lube onto his fingers. Angel or no, he wants to ease Cas into this. His voice catches in his throat. “Alright. Fuck, alright.”

It doesn’t take that long to prepare Cas. Dean’s surprised, but apparently being an angel means the other man doesn’t have the ingrained inhibitions most people do about having something up his ass, so all it takes is a few murmured reassurances for Cas to relax. By the time Dean is thrusting three fingers in, holding one of Cas’s legs back with his free hand, Cas is breathing heavily.

“You ready?” He asks, pulling his fingers out and positioning his cock instead, covering it in gel. 

At Cas’s assent he presses in, brow furrowed in concentration. “God” he moans, feeling Cas tense and then relax around him, hot and slick and tight. The prickling heat of the curse is building in his body and it takes everything he has not to slam his way in, but he manages, sinking forward slowly and stroking Cas’s cock with one hand. He carefully starts to thrust, barely pulling out at all initially, trying to angle his hips in different ways. He’s only done anal with girls before, so while he knows in theory that he should try for the prostate when he’s with a man, he has no idea where that is. “Shh, it’s okay. Relax for me. That’s it.”

His chest is shuddering with restraint when Cas finally arches and gasps under him, fingers digging painfully into Dean’s arm. He gives another shallow thrust in the same spot, watching the object of so many guilty fantasies gasp and cant his hips upwards in the universal sign of “more, please.” 

He wants this to be slow and sweet, but in the end he’s thrusting into Cas hard and fast, muscles crying out at the effort after the long day, and he sucks viciously at Cas’s neck. “I want you to come for me,” he groans, hand starting to pump Cas again. “Cas, please. Say my name, please” he grunts, wanting to believe this is happening, pounding into the smooth heat as Cas tries awkwardly to meet his thrusts. 

“ _Dean_ ” Cas responds breathily, meeting his eyes, staring into them like he’s looking straight through to Dean’s soul. It’s almost like a prayer the way it tumbles from kiss-bruised lips, like he’s worshipping him, and the hand that’s been scrabbling over Dean’s body for purchase suddenly stills and grips, and then a spasm as Cas comes, eyes locked on where his fingers dig into Dean’s skin.

Dean’s own thrusts become jagged as he strokes Cas through the aftershocks, glancing over to see where Cas’s heavily lidded eyes still stare. It’s the handprint- the one Cas left when he pulled him out of hell, the one Dean has jerk off to while staring at it in the mirror. He’s pressing his face to Cas’s chest desperately as he comes, body humming in time to his heartbeat as something unnatural shoots through his veins. “Cas, oh Cas” he sobs, gripping hurriedly at bony hips as he gives his last few thrusts. He can feel the magic leaving him, seeping out of every pore as he fucks into Cas’s body with a desperation he hasn’t felt as long as he can remember. 

It takes him a minute to gather his thoughts and breath, and then he collapses to the side and looks over to see Cas watching him curiously, lips still slightly parted in exhaustion, the picture of debauchery. He’s just corrupted one of the heavenly host.

“How do you feel?” Cas asks carefully, eyes searching him.

“Like every bone in my body is made of jello.” He pauses, realizes Cas might take that literally and get alarmed, so he corrects himself. “More tired than the time I performed a thirty-six hour long exorcism. But in a good way. A definitely-not-cursed way. What about you?”

“Like I just lost my anal virginity.” Cas deadpans, lips twitching in a smile when it wrings a laugh out of Dean. “I’ve discovered that physical contact is very nice. I believe this is the part where we ‘cuddle.’” 

Dean freezes. They may have just had curse-necessitated sex, and Cas may have admitted to wanting him long before this, but he’s still not sure exactly what other feelings Cas might return. He clears his throat in the manliest way he can muster. “Uh. Sure.” 

Cas turns and wraps an arm around him and Dean extends his arm, letting the other man lay his head on it. “We never did talk, Dean.”

His eyes squeeze shut. “Do we really need to? After that?”

There’s a nod. “Your incubus took my form. That means you desired me, but in what capacity? Sexual or emotional?”

They both smell like sweat and sex and Dean is way, way too tired to prance around the issue anymore. “All of the above.” He murmurs, heart tightening, ready for rejection.

There’s a worryingly long pause, and then he opens his eyes to look down at Cas who searches his face carefully before leaning forward almost conspiratorally. “Good. Because I believe that for the sake of caution, we should repeat this.”

There’s something to be said for angelic stamina.


End file.
